اللاهوت –– 𝒅𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒕𝒚

POINT  DIVIDER  FOR  𝒀𝑨𝒁𝑰𝑫 𝑰𝑩𝑹𝑨𝑯𝑰𝑴 𝑩𝑨Ş𝑻Ü𝑹𝑲

AU WHERE 𝑲𝑨𝑺𝑰𝑴 BECOMES SULTAN   (  LEFT  )  .  AU WHERE 𝑴𝑼𝑹𝑨𝑫 BECOMES SULTAN  (  RIGHT  )  .

Abuzar Beg was not alone. That much he noticed even before the intruder began to speak, though the shahbanu’s trusted advisor had assumed it was someone else, no one as important as a vizier of the Ottoman Empire. He could only smile as their eyes met. “I believe so, yes. Most men like their ale.”

If memory served Abuzar correctly, the man was not the Grand Vizier, though his words make the shahbanu’s trusted advisor doubt his own memory. There were two of them, he recalled, as he discreetly tried his best to his scars: One doubts the Europeans while the other would be more likely to befriend them. Something about a marriage agreement with them? That much, Abuzar’s contacts have revealed, though there were no more established truths.

“You are a vizier of the Ottoman Empire?” Abuzar offered him a brief nod in acknowledgment of his rank, his status, though he kept his eyes on him. Their empires were not known to be great friends, though there was hope in the back of Abuzar’s mind that he can change that. Somehow. “I am Abuzar Beg, of the Persian Empire. It is my honor and privilege to make your acquaintance.”

        persia was neither friend nor foe; ally nor enemy. it would be harder for the shah to prove himself as the former, though near effortless to style himself as an adversary of the ottoman sultan. for his part, yazid received the gentleman with attentive, judicious goodwill. it was rare for the pasha to meet foreigners head-on with animosity, as it was not until their loyalty was tried and disproved that he stripped away the trappings of altruism. “as they say, the mind is willing, but the flesh is weak. or, i suppose, in this circumstance: the appetite is weak.” an easy smile graced the corners of yazid’s lips. “such seems to be the plague of european kings: excessive appetite.” it was even more apparent as muslim congregations began their yearly fast, observing the cultural and religious practices of ramadan, whereas their catholic counterparts did not –– continuing to make merry and indulge at all hours of the night.

         “let us walk,” iskender answered, gesturing to the stone pathway which snaked along the most picturesque stretch of the palace’s inner walls. he appreciated the location’s birds-eye view; on all sides, the land rolled into rugged hills and lush greenwood. while the ride up had been hellish following the day’s turbulent waters, discomfort nonetheless failed to deter iskender from surveying their new home. a brisk stroll would also distract from the bustle and commotion accompanying the imperial household. indeed, before yazid’s approach, the younger girls had unceremoniously pulled the sultan into a contentious and largely nonsensical argument about the palace’s colors; now, they raced toward the grand entrance, their exasperated mothers and servants weighed down with trunks all trailing after.

he returned to yazid’s question once they set upon the path. “your zeal is appreciated, as always, pasha. now, tell me — we have spent two years cultivating a vast orchard, one terraced across a difficult terrain. what will first yield fruit, and which blights should concern us?”

          a stab of pain clenches in his calf, muscles tightening, nerve endings standing alert to the sudden, unpleasant sensation flowing through both bone and sinew as the sultan leads him through a path of winding cobblestone. within a moment, the smarting is gone; his complexion, within an instant, returning from ashen paleness to a warm glow, marked by a creasing of his lips that allows a smile to form, met in the eyes –– a genuineness in his deference to the sultan that is felt, virtually, nowhere else in his life. “my sultan, forgive me, i do not intend to wax lyrical of my own life, but growing up, at least in the summer months, away from court, has done good to my soul.” pasha gazed ever-forward, explaining: “there was a plum tree that stood proud in our courtyard, producing brilliant, succulent plums.”

She had been unsure of what she wanted as she stood by his chambers, her hand lingering at the handle before pushing it open to reveal the scent, sounds and sights of his privacy. She was also unsure of what lurked behind his face, what worked behind his crown of hair! He could be the enemy for all she knew; but Mihrimah went to him willingly, like a lost lamb to the nearest flock. 

It was all too clear that it was unsuitable for the Sultana to find herself in a wet, towel-cladded Vizier. All the more, it was wrong for Mihrimah to stare. But she had never seen such informality, not even towards her own brother or father, as she felt her toes curl — relishing in the cooling touch of the stone, realigning her that it was all too real and far from a surreal world. 

She pushed the door back to reveal herself in her amethyst gown, relishing in his eye as the marble statues of old would do, as Yazid looked to her. She hoped, without fear, that he looked to her as she did to him. That just sight alone was enough to stir something beneath the facade often brought to her harem. Without straying her gaze, Mihrimah stepped in and closed the door behind to relish in the fact that they were alone. For the entirety of the trip, Mihrimah had been held within the humble gaze of either her entourage of ladies or her translator to help her convene with ladies and men alike. When stood in his chambers, she noted that in fact it was the first time she had been without anyone. That what would come to her mouth was simply her, at her barest — at her most vulnerable. 

Relishing herself of her outer layer, Mihrimah allowed her feet to carry her toward him, her hands only lifting ones their toes dared to touch. “I am unwell,” she began, as if to plead for her life — her hand embracing the curve of his face as she held him. “Do you really wish for a portrait of me, Yazid? You do not jest?” Her eyes wide, her lips parted, Mihrimah leaned herself closer— feeling an almighty push from within as she pressed her lips to his own. It was indeed a first kiss, a first kiss that had grown starved and all the more devouring as she shared it with him. With her eyes lowered, she remained against him, her mouth lingering just against his own as she searched for the words to whisper. “Do you feel that? Do you feel something holy between us?” 

        military crusades had stripped yazid of a gentleness he now knew through prose alone; amorous poetry which he consumed in ultimate secrecy, and allah’s calming touch. his last love –– though the circumstances were hardly deserving of what appeared to him to be a word of such grandioseness –– had been a maid, capitalizing on soldiers’ loneliness as they trekked endlessly up the borders of the mamluk sultanate, their only company being their battalions and their steeds and their own thoughts; god, if they implored his presence. she entered his tent and left it in the same night, not knowing that, for the next seven years, her touch would be the last t grace his skin; insignificant, unmemorable. celibacy presided in the years since. duty to allah and to sultan iskender triumphed over pleasures and urges of the flesh; resolved to walk the straight and narrow and turn his gaze away from the courtesans and foreign noblewomen who crooked their fingertips and wagged their eyebrows at him in exchange for an unprecedented rise in the sultan’s esteem. love, long ago, presented itself as a lost cause, and he was not idiotic enough to think he was deserving of it in this lifetime; lust became the equivalent of seeking wholeness in the same place one left it, a wasteland of pleasure. he decided long ago that he would not turn away from allah’s light, his gentleness, his wholeness, in this chapter, as he had in the last.

but then –––– mihrimah sultan is stretching onto her tip-toes, curling under her weight to crash his lips against his, and his hands knot in the navy cascade of curls running down her back, finding solace in the silken strands at her hips. her tongue tastes of a melange of vengeance and hope; a bright, white summer of linen and verdant lawns, and though he can tell there is a newness dawning, a burning of innocence with each moment he allows to spend with his mouth pressed flush to his, she is a veteran of the shadows –– dark, sulky, honeyed. her mouth tastes of this, of broken pomegranates and promises; the break of a storm and clap of thunder, velvet and melodic and melancholy. she lowers her finger down his naked skin, able to feel the thump of his heart as it beats out of his flesh, and with it, she has pried open pandora’s box.

holy. unholy. the two words are separated by a puny little prefix. where was allah in his ambition –– where was he to be found in his lust, crying out from beneath the cage of his ribs, louder than his prayers for absolution ever had? silently, yazid turned away from mihrimah; running a hand haggardly over his face, dragging his calloused palm across his lips where her taste and her moistness remained, her own mouth reddened and plumped from their kiss. regret pitted in his stomach; fear, perhaps, abetting it, offering it home, a hearth, and a source to feed upon. a weak source; a weak man. he was weak for kissing her; for allowing her entrance. and, he knew, he would do it again. seven years. seven years since he last felt the touch of another upon him; since he last felt whole. no, he did not love mihrimah –– she was a pawn to him, he knew –– but he felt a longing for her, a longing for anything warm, and receptive, and mewling, that invigorated a pulse of desire he stowed in order to reap the riches of his position of paşa. yazid had replaced one sin, lust, with another, ambition; and yet they now melded, like molten steel, into one... and mihrimah was the cruel blacksmith behind this fusion. 

seven years and he had felt nothing. in one brisk, violent movement, baştürk felt each day’s abstinence crashing around him.

grabbing her face in his hands, he pressed his thumbs into the fleshy, flushed apples of her cheek, and kissed her. roughly. deliriously. deliriously. with a brutality afforded of soldiers, not sultanas. “is this what you desire?” yazid demanded, “to ruin yourself?” 

location : yazid’s personal chambers, palacio da pena timestamp : early evening, after the various events status : closed to @basturkish·

A good girl would not lurk in the corridors. A good girl did not seek company once the sun began to fall. But finally, and perhaps most importantly, a girl would not seek to find a man alone in his chambers. 

But she had waited, she had tried— with each passing moment Mihrimah had prayed for forgiveness and perhaps it was the passing of Ramadan that coaxed forward the hunger that riddled her blood, but Mihrimah couldn’t stay from his door any longer. 

With eager steps she made her way, leaving her ladies and closest confidantes behind to stand at his door. She could hear him, the splash of water and footsteps that carried him. Mihrimah did not know what lay behind his mind, or what he thought of her and her strict loyalty to father, brother and mother —but in that instance, that night of utmost need, Mihrimah reached forth and took the handle of the door, pushing slowly to reveal the glow of candles and the smell of fruit. 

“Yazid,” she called from plump lips; swollen from wishing and dreaming as her toes curled against the bare floor (she had gone amiss of her slippers in the hope to repel noise). Scratching her nails against the door, she pushed it open further and watched as if she was peeking in on a very intimate and private moment. “Yazid, it’s me— Mihrimah…”

         the scent of lavender and herbs wafted pleasantly around the chamber, springing from the steam swirling around the bathwater that lapped gently against yazid’s flesh. the warmth of the water eased him into an apparent quiet, immersing his bones in a small pool of ripples that threatened to flow up and over the rim of the tin tub with each sway of his knee. otherwise, the vizier remained completely still. tension lingered between his brows, knitted in contemplation that could not be completely eviscerated by the calming effect of the bath. the kings of europe had proved themselves greater adversaries than they were allies; and the braganzas better party-throwers than power-players. the relationship with cordòba continuing to be still, at best, volatile, and at its worst, jeopardizing. 

as his thoughts slipped from a precipice of wonder into a pit of brutal realities, yazid gripped the sides of the basin tight enough that his knuckles began to whiten, the squareness of his jaw clamped rigidly together. emitting a guttural groan that echoed from the four walls, he arched his head backward, feeling the cool lip of the tub dig into his tender flesh, as the adam’s apple lodged within his throat began to bob ever so slightly. he was determined to be undisturbed. self-reflective. a fermata of the soul. but the aura within his mind was hardly conducive; the storm that eddied endlessly around the court of lisbon had scarcely allowed him a moment of meditative thought that did not directly surround politics, not a second of prayer that did not call for the sultan’s ascendancy. so, though scuttle ensued outside, he reminded himself that passing servants were customary and he would not be disturbed, regardless, by the ensuing commotion. it was not until the sultana’s name pierced the silence like a siren in the night that something stirred within him, and at least a sliver of his conscience was gladdened that he would not need continue this ‘meditative’ farce.

the vizier stood, reaching for the towel nearest to him and slinging it around his hips as he stepped out of the tub. droplets of moisture clung to his tanned skin and the gently rippling muscles beneath. years of warfare had afforded yazid a physique he bore no aesthetic qualms to, save for the anguish of a scar running just above the hem of the towel; though he would gladly trade the sleek and sinewy physicality of a soldier for the clean conscience of a citizen. he crept toward the door, wooden floorboards creaking underneath his weight. allah’s name stood to attention in his mind; unsure of what was to happen, what weakness she had yet to uncover. he opened the door –– just a crack –– and gazed at mihrimah; eyes traveling from top to bottom, and back again.

So eager to make a good impression, Mihrimah beamed. She presented her petals and feathers as if the sun itself had coaxed her forward — as she turned and heard the mention of a portrait. One artist had tried to capture her essence in charcoal, a miniature presented by a man who had once thought her his equal. What a silly man! Why would an artist think they had any right to lust over the Sultana? He, Yazid, on the other hand was made (in her eyes) precious gems and whimsical dreams. He was ripe for the embrace, he was ripe for plucking. 

“Would you like a copy?” She asked, flirting with the danger that lingered — a danger instilled from a lifetime of whispers about dangerous, lustful men. How she should not tempt, should not draw away… It would only tempt the Sultan to keep his daughter behind the safety of his gilded cages — and that was a fate worse than death, for the Sultana deserved freedom… Especially now she had tasted it. 

“To pick your secrets? I’m not sure, I believe curiosity overcomes me when we stand side by side, that is all,” Mihrimah muses, her tone changed — isolated instead of free, as her head tilts in thought. Did he think her so cunning? Not that it mattered, if Mihrimah desired him she was sure he wouldn’t have the pride to stop her… Ah, her ego would soon burst, that she was certain off. 

It was his words that left her silent, biding her time as she repeated his voice in her head. What was she meant to do? With a soft furrowing of her brows, Mihrimah turned to look at him, her hair falling slightly to distort the vision between them — to disallow her tongue that’d normally jump with the first thought in that moment. She thought of her mother, her brother and father; then to her many siblings and her teachings. She had not prepared for something formal, as she twisted her fingers here and there, before turning to look to him with a flicker of a polite smile. “Tell me with clear words, do not make ugly words pretty with your smiles… Tell me what you mean, I do not wish to be deceived.” 

        the vizier knew the sultan’s gaggle of daughters to be novelties; each of them compelling, inquisitive, and at times doggedly unique women –– not one weak link among them. more than being simply testaments to the house of osman’s unspoiled blood, they were living proof of what law, order, and piety might accomplish in the fairer sex ... and mihrimah sultan was no exception (though her numerous similarities to mahidevran valide were of marked concern to yazid, should he seek to claim her hand.) furthermore, she was beautiful, and yazid would not deny that he had taken note of such long before the empire’s caravels berthed at the port of lisbon. his full-lips parted in response to her offer, a chuckle exuding between them as he voiced, partly incredulously: “ ––––  a copy?”

“pray, sultana, why should i desire a copy when i have something better yet, something more invaluable and beauteous–– the sitter herself–– standing before me?” his mouth then curled slyly, “unless, of course, you should wish me to pray for you ... in which case, i would keep your likeness close to my breast, indeed.” he quirked a brow, encouraging her to join in his coquetry once more. he sought to gauge her reaction, certain that she was somewhere between starved of the male gaze entirely and fascinated by him specifically, for it would provide him with a true north –– a star he would follow with the utmost of discretion. 

pasha suppressed the snort of a chortle, mihrimah’s words hardly causing him undue surprise. curiosity? it was not entirely unheard of for curiosity, of all things, to plague osman children. reasoning pensively, he echoed: “curiosity is an admirable trait, in my eyes.” as he spoke, yazid observed the cant of mihrimah’s head, the sharp incline of her jaw –– as angled as the rock of gibraltar, but as feminine as the bust of a greek goddess –– and instinctively he swiped his tongue across the bourn of his suddenly dry mouth before speaking once more. “i– forgive me, sultana.” he swallowed his own pride, but reminded himself that he was sowing the seeds for an alliance. some measure of humility was to be taken. “as i was saying... few may agree, but their philosophies mean naught to me, for is curiosity not the precursor of all learning. ..?”

halted to meet her gaze, yazid is compelled to intone words that would convey his purposeful intent. “i deceive you not,” he declares, quietly albeit. his gaze narrowed in response to the furrow of her brows and the petulant pout of her bottom lip, pushed out from underneath her teeth in defiance. the vizier then outstretched his palm, flexing the fingers at his side before his hand rose to sweep the tendril of hair that had been pushed by a stray breeze into mihrimah’s line of vision. moving it away from her face, he tenderly tucked the loose strand behind her ear, the roughened pad of his thumb caressing the smooth surface of her unblemished flesh. he allowed his hand to cusp her cheek for a mere moment, wondering if she would lean into his touch, his warmth –– or if his prideful and thoroughgoing ambitions were for nothing? “but i cannot speak plainly in such a setting.”

the meeting of this many dignitaries from across the continent was always sure to stir up some old news, old feuds, but caterina had hoped that her past wouldn’t have been part of it. a naive hope, she knew, but maybe something more of note had happened in the years following so that the disgrace wouldn’t fall so heavily on her head. but a plot to depose a sitting monarch could never go unspoken about, and she knew it wasn’t just france in this mess, but florence, milan, and the holy roman empire all in together. she was sure that allies and enemies alike had taken note.

what she hadn’t expected, was to overhear the sultan and the queen talking so openly about it, not seeing her hidden in a conversation full of women with dark hair. it brought a flash of anger in her chest and color to her cheeks, though luckily no words to her lips as she paused and remembered where she was. the situation had to be handled lightly, of that she was sure. her quick words had gotten her in trouble many a time, but tonight would not be one of those. 

turning to meet the eyes of the queen, she dipped her head in respect to them both, closing the space between them. “i must confess and apologize, for i heard my husband’s name and i could not help but hear your words.” she paused, not knowing exactly how to toe the line between respect and emotion. “it is a strange and terrible story for sure. one that i hope i’ll be leaving in my past.”

// @isabelofyork· &&. @basturkish·

         the vizier held his breath as caterina de medici stepped forth, her tongue boldly prodding around the use of the word “husband.” the discrepancies –– and there again, similarities –– between the two women were not lost upon paşa. isabel, a mistress turned royal; caterina, a natural born royal ousted by her prince’s mistress. isabel was fortunate that she had shedded the skin of a mistress and developed the outer-coating of a queen, by dint of her own family’s heraldry, and yet he wondered if she, much like the majority of europe, shared in pity for caterina –– or if she would agree with him that the princess had lubberly fumbled her own upper hand.

“you needn’t apologize, princesse, as we were merely discussing the queen’s fond memories of france in her girlhood.” hazel hues flickered between the raven-haired isabel back to caterina, narrowed in thought. he drew a tankard to his mouth, warm water flowing between his parted lips. “might i suggest you two acquaint yourself as i replenish our ale?” the vizier suggested with some buoyancy of hope for reconciliation and, with more exclusive ambitions to curry favor with both women. “i would only seek to inquire after the health of the queen mother solange, and the countess of burgundy. both ladies cut a fascinating figure in the east, for contrasting reasons, though i have yet to have the pleasure.” his brows rose expectantly. “perhaps you both might indulge my curiosity.”

it was not often branimira went to baştürk, she had not told anyone of how her night before was plagued with fire and screams, something she had not had in months, dare she say years? it was unsettling to her as was the response to her knock. 

she passed through, smiling at her mother tongue. how she was looking forward to hearing it once more. she shook her head. “no he is doing quite well, i just came to check in on who i should mingle with tonight?”

         paşa’s brow crinkled in uncertainty, though the rapid movement of his gaze stilled as the concern for his şehzade coursing through his veins at last decelerated. “that depends entirely on you, sultana, and who you think you might endear yourself to.” yazid smiled affectionately, his warmth corroded by some reluctance rearing its ugly head in response to branimira’s lack of confidence in her own capabilities. had he not shown her the ropes as best as one could? had he not been an attentive and proactive vizier? he was certain that he had been. still, he gauged that there was some hesitancy on her part that they would strive to improve. and with any luck, they would do so before any of her adversaries took note of it and weaponized it against them.

“certainly, you will be delighted to reunite with your sister, no? she has drawn us closer to the holy roman empire, and we wish to make an ample impression upon her empress ... though i might only advise to begin lower on the totem pole, and work your way up. the count of celano and marsi, for starters, or the princess emilia.” as he spoke, he moved to take a seat, lowering upon an upholstered chaise dominating the centre of the chamber. 

@basturkish·

       With an impulse of great displeasure, the Emir had consented to a sitting room affair   — the European’s were so fond of gatherings around drink and finger foods. A distinguished guest and ardent enemy (rumours scalded him, actions marked him) he was met with pretty grace, approached again and again, by those paying respects.The attentions called onto Hisham’s face a pleasurable glow; he met them with caution and replied in dulcet tones, yielding to the sneering rumour the great beast had become domesticated. 

     As genial and harmonious he found the courtier’s conversation, it took no great modes of persuasion to join the Ottoman Empire’s revered mind, for proposed talk. The Vizier was himself the soul of discretion - having as strong a brain and sound a judgment as ever furnished a head, he was somewhat conventional, too strict for Hisham in certain circles; but the Emir wished for his intellect now, astute assumptions and assertions. “Piteous I am torn between remarking on the two years time that have passed since we last conversed, inquiries into the state of your health, or commentary on the French man, near stumbling after drink - scotch, is it? Wondrous, the variety of concoctions available to render great men asinine jesters.” The Vizier was not a friend, nor a beloved companion; Hisham was unsteady in any assumption the man liked him. Their religious devotion was yet, their most potent source of unity; the Ottoman’s presence remained a source of comfort, on this principle. “The vices of our esteemed hosts are not ghastly, lest I be misunderstood - a source of curious amusement, certainly. May we resume our interrupted ventures of peace and understanding; I preach to the choir, for who cultivates peace accords and alliances, better than yourself?” 

       the vizier was gladdened to meet and speak with the emir, having maintained a respectable distance from the empire’s affairs with cordoba in the hopes of carving out a place for european allies –– and continental wealth –– in the sultan’s mind. so long as hürrem remained at the emir’s side, coy enough to maintain his affections but intelligent and willful in staying abreast of his militaristic and political machinations, yazid considered his hands clean of affairs with the emirate; after all, such was selim’s sphere of influence, and above all, there would be order in the ottoman empire. standing before a pair of sentinels who guarded the emir’s apartments, yazid grunted out a command to pass. adjusting his turban and aligning the gilded buttons that ran up his tunic, the guards swept aside, allowing yazid to push open the grand oak doors, revealing hisham al-barracin’s stately figure.

the emir’s bronzed flesh glimmered in the sunlight; bathed in the light caught from the windows, he wore confidence like a second skin as he rose to greet the vizier. not a crease had furrowed between his brows, and no lines lingered around the lips that voiced pleasantries and discreet witticisms as the double-doors shut sharply behind him. yazid was a statesman, not an artist, but he was certain that any maestro would itch for the opportunity to consign the emir’s grandeur and beauty to eternity by painting his likeness; entombing his innate éclat and self-assurance in rich oil paints. yet, as he glanced upon him, baştürk wondered –– who did hisham fear? what hand, other than allah’s, could sweep him from the limelight ... from the throne?

baştürk remained mum until directly spoken to –––– he found, in the presence of rulers, it was best to behave reverently, and merely encourage the sultan (or any foreign head of state) to inch closer to the conclusion, or action, he thought would serve best. after all, he could not risk being accused of twisting the sultan’s arm, or pushing him toward a rash decision. “the vices of our esteemed hosts are not only ghastly, but numerous.” he tilted his head back, eyeing the emir as a sliver of sunlight pierced harshly through the vizier’s hazel irises. glancing away, blinking away the moistness that gathered in the whites of his eye, a genial grin then crossed yazid’s features as he agreed harmoniously: “wine, whorehouses, deviation... i am beginning to believe these are the fundamental pillars of european society.” 

            brought  up  in  unprecedented  luxury  and  enshrouded  by  all  the  advantages  befitting  a  daughter  of  the  dynasty,  humility  was  not  one  of  melek’s  strong  points.  it  was  true  that  she  could  be  gracious  and  humble  when  the  occasion  called  for  it,  but  the  sultana  was  also  filled  from  tip  to  toe  with  an  entitled  sense  of  self – worth,  which  had  been  known  to  take  an  almost  vicious  stance.   ❛  they  should  not  be  looking  at  me  at  all  !!  ❜  she  snapped  in  a  hushed  tone,  her  anger  borne  from  low  self - confidence.  trying  to  be  discreet  as  she  possible  could,  melek  refastened  her  lavender  veil  that  shielded  her  features  from  the  nose  down.    

❛  and  you  should  not  lie  to  me, paşa.  we  both  know  they  mock …  ❜  melek  paused,  gazing  a  moment  at  the  man  beside  her.  ❛  though  i  do  not  accuse  you  of  such  things,  even  if  i  fail  to  see  what  there  is  to  admire. ❜  it  was  a  quiet  statement,  yet  one  that  hinted  at  the  roots  of  uncertainty  that  stemmed  deep  within.  a  brow  raised  at  his  next  words,  a  look  of  skepticism  crossing  her  features.  ❛  i  cannot  possibly  fathom  what  you  are  referring  to  but …  i  am  willing  to  give  it  a  chance,  within  reason.  ❜

          there existed a troubling dichotomy, a paradox entirely inexplicable to the vizier, in the way the sultana carried herself and in the way she spoke of herself  –––––  the former, highly, befitting of her station; the latter, in the great depths of contempt for one’s self. paşa formed his lips into a firm, hardened line, with a cant of his head mulling over how best to proceed. a woman’s temperament was a delicate thing; a sultana’s even more so. “the holy prophet inflicts great and many punishments for lying,” he observed quietly, “and though i serve the sultan with all my spirit, i shan’t damn my soul in an attempt to flatter.” warm, amber-hues flit toward melek as a contemplative expression crosses his features. leaning forth only a touch to emphasize his sentiments, a respective distance between the two remains as he lilts:  “i bid only that you believe the scar to be a testament to your strength ... it displays a fortitude that few possess and, between you and i, few europeans among us have to depth to comprehend.”